Friends
by Dickensian812
Summary: Based on "Little Dorrit." A rewrite of the scene in the miniseries when Arthur and Amy meet again - because frankly, Andrew Davies botched it.


I wrote this story some time ago and put it up on my LiveJournal, but for some reason I never got around to posting it here. These characters don't belong to me - but they don't belong to Andrew Davies either, and I'm pretty sure I can do a better job with this scene than he did. Actually, that's not saying much, because I'm pretty sure my four-year-old goddaughter could have done a better job with this scene than he did. The thing is in desperate need of a rewrite, is what I'm saying - so here is my attempt to, as one of my LJ friends put it, "recuperate" it.

Friends

Amy Dorrit was glad that the winter afternoon was bleak and chilly. Its drabness suited her mood as she walked slowly through the London streets, through which she had once hurried every day to the homes of various employers.

How deeply she had longed to see this city again. How her brother and sister would have laughed at her had they known she was secretly hungering for dirty, dreary London through all their time in sunny Italy. Even her father—her poor dear uncomprehending father—would have scolded her, suspecting some wholly imaginary disloyalty. Still, she had always thought that if she could only get back here, back to the place where she had known the happiest time of her life, everything would be all right.

Now she was here, and it was all wrong. Everything was wrong.

Lost in thought, she did not realize that her steps had taken her out of her way, near a factory she had scarcely ever visited before. Not until a small sound made her look up to see Arthur Clennam standing before her, his face alight with surprise and joy. For half a second she thought she was still imagining him.

"It's you!" Yes, it was his voice. This was reality, not another daydream. She felt the blood draining from her face at the shock.

"Mr. Clennam," she managed.

"I should not have known you! Why didn't you tell me you were in London?" His words tumbled out in an eager rush, overwhelming her.

"I . . . only arrived a day or two ago. Besides, I didn't want to disturb you." _Even though I was wishing for you every moment . . ._

"Little Dorrit, you would never disturb me! I should never be sorry to see you! I thought you knew that." He paused, the smile vanishing from his face as he took in the anguished expression on hers. "What is it?"

At last, her changed appearance came home to him. His voice sank. "Oh. You're in mourning." She could see his realization of the truth even before she explained.

"My father and his brother are both dead." While it hurt her to speak the words, at the same time she felt a tiny, irrational flicker of pleasure as Clennam quickly took off his hat. Her father would have appreciated the respect.

"I'm very sorry to hear that. They died abroad." It was more a statement than a question.

"Yes, in Venice."

She could see her pain reflected in his eyes. "You must miss them both very much," he said gently.

"Yes, I do. Of course I do." She lifted her chin a little. "But I think they are both happier now." She had held onto that belief with all her strength ever since it had happened. It was the only thing keeping her from total collapse.

He must have sensed that fragility in her, underneath her attempt at a show of strength. "Is there, ah—is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, a little hesitantly.

Something shifted inside Amy. Help? How could he speak of help to her when he had never been able to give her what she wanted most from him?

"What sort of help do you imagine I might need?" she asked, surprising herself with the unwonted sharpness in her own voice. "I have no need of money now—"

She broke off suddenly, abashed at the look in his blue eyes. "I—I didn't mean . . ." Clennam stammered.

"No. I know." She bowed her head. "Forgive me," she whispered. "Everything has been—it has all happened so . . ." Her voice was starting to tremble. She had to stop and take a breath.

"Of course." Instantly his voice held the old reassuring note. She didn't dare look up at him. "Little Dorrit, I'm sorry—for anything I said to hurt you, I'm so very sorry."

How could he be so understanding and not understand at all? All the old pain and helplessness welled up in her, stronger than ever. She could no longer trust herself to speak to him. She had to get away. With a quick shake of her head and a murmur of—something, she wasn't even sure herself what it was—she started to move past him.

"Wait—" He put out his hand in a quick gesture, his fingers just brushing her arm, that seemed to startle him as much as it did her. She saw his hand drop to his side, and finally lifting her eyes again, she saw that he had flushed faintly.

"We used to be such good friends, you and I," he said quietly. "Can you not trust me anymore? Are we still friends?"

_Friends._ If only he could know how that word pierced her! As the tears rose in her eyes, she wanted to escape him more than she had ever wanted anything—more than she had wanted to see him again all these months.

But as she faced him squarely, fighting back the tears, it was her turn to take him in completely. Now that his delighted expression at the first sight of her had faded, she noticed the lines of strain around his eyes and mouth, the weary droop of his shoulders. Amy's heart turned over in her. What had happened to make him look so worn and anxious?

"Yes." The word slipped from her involuntarily. But as she saw the relief dawning in his eyes, she said it again, more firmly. "Yes. We are friends."

As she said it, she knew it was true. She had thought for a moment she could never again bear to be near him as only a friend. But she could not lose him altogether. Not when he needed her as much as she needed him.

Arthur Clennam said nothing, only stood looking at her. Gray and cold as the day still was, a tension seemed to have gone out of the air, as in the wake of a storm. The stress still showed itself on his face, but some of the old light was beginning to break through.

Impulsively Amy reached for his hand, grasped it for the briefest instant, before dropping it and stepping back. "Please, excuse me, I must go," she said hastily, half breathless at her own unexpected daring.

"I—yes. Of course. Thank you." His words were as confused as the emotions on his countenance. But she heard his whole heart in them.

Amy felt his eyes still on her as she flitted away through the damp twilight. She had to stop after turning the corner and lean against a wall, her knees still trembling from the encounter. A dry sob shook her and she covered her eyes with her hand.

She was not sure she could bear to see him again, after all. Not like that. Not when he still had no idea how she truly felt about him.

But she would have to find the strength somehow. For they were friends.


End file.
